Provocations
Public-domain ebook
Provocations
Language: en352 downloads on Project Gutenberg
Subjects
Public-domain ebook sourced from Project Gutenberg #33855.
The opening · free to read
My London Garden, 1914
My Garden is a tiny square Of bordered green And gravel brown In misty town, And chimneys smoky and unclean Sweep to the sky.--_You_ would not care To visit there.
The Grass creeps up all in between the stones And raises undisturbed its luscious green And laughs for youth in shrill and ringing tones. I love it that it grows up so serene, Dauntless and bright And laughing me to scorn, So vivid and so slight, Glad for the night-shed dew and smoke-bred morn.
My little patch of bordered green and brown Sleeps in the bosom of a grim old town, I wish that you could see Its beauty here with me; I'd tell you many things you never knew, For few, so few Know the romance of such a London strip, With ferny screen That slants shy gleams of sunlight in between And weeds which flourish just inside the dip, Holding their tenure with a firm deep grip Where prouder things all die. Small wonder I Tend my tall weed as tho' it were a gem, Note every leaf, and watch the stalwart stem Wax strong and high-- My weed plot lives in reckless luxury.
But, in the Spring, before black grime Has done its worst, And cruel Time And dust accursed Have marred the innocence of each young leaf, Or soiled the blossoms, like a wanton thief-- Masses of tulips, pink and white, Rise from the earth in prim delight, And iris, king of pomp and state, In vesture fine And purple and pale gold Its buds unfold-- A mighty potentate, And marshals nobly, proudly into line, Whilst lilacs sway in wind and rushing breeze, Bowing and nodding to some poplar trees.
But stay!-- You would not care To visit there Midst such surroundings grey. My Garden's but an oasis of hope Set in the frown And dismal grandeur of a grim old town, A semblance merely of the lawns you see; A hint, an echo of the things that be! But he or she would be a misanthrope Who would not share my garden hope with me.
My Garden, 1918
Such was my garden once, a Springtide hope of flowers, All rosy pink or violet or blue Or yellow gold, with sunflecks on the dew. Now in their place a Summer garden towers Of green-leaved artichokes and turnip tops, Of peas and parsnips, sundry useful crops. --But even vegetables must have little flowers.
Over the Top!
Ten more minutes! Say yer prayers, Read yer Bibles,--pass the rum! Ten more minutes! Strike me dumb, 'Ow they creeps on unawares Those blooming minutes. Nine. It's queer, I'm sorter stunned. It ain't with fear!
Eight. It's like as if a frog Waddled round in your inside Cold as ice-blocks, straddled wide, Tired o' waiting.--Where's the grog? Seven. I'll play you pitch and toss. Six. I wins, and tails your loss.
'Nother minute sprinted by 'Fore I knowed it; only four (Break 'em into seconds) more 'Twixt us and Eternity! Every word I've ever said Seems a-shouting in my head!
Three. Larst night a little star Fairly shook up in the sky, Frightened by the lullaby Rattled by the dogs of war. Funny thing--that star all white Saw old Blighty too, larst night!
Two. I ain't ashamed o' prayers, They're only wishes sent ter God, Bits o' plants from bloody sod Trailing up His golden stairs. Ninety seconds. Well, who cares!-- One. . . . . . . . . . . . . No pipe, no blare, no drum-- Over the Top!--to Kingdom Come
And rivers passionate[A] Tore through the mountain passes, swept the plains, O'erbrimmed with tears, o'erbrimmed with summer rains, All wild, all desolate. Whilst the deep Mother-breast Of drowsy-lidded Nature, drunk with dreams, Below Pangani, by Rufigi streams, Took him to rest.
Beneath the sunlit skies, Where bright birds wing, and rich luxuriant trees Sway in the fevered breeze, My Brother lies.
The bending grasses woo His hurried grave; a cross of oak to show The drifting winds, a Soldier sleeps below. --Our Saviour's cross, I know, Was wooden, too.
[A] The river Rufigi rose so high the night he died, none of his own Battalion could cross it to attend his last honours.
Send Sorrow away. Maid of the sombre sway, Breathing woe In a murmur low, And her lips are pale And her body frail. Send Sorrow away.
Send Sorrow away, Foe of the dancing day. Oh! her cheeks fall in, And her hands are thin, But her grip is fast On the changeless past; And they sere and clutch The soul they touch. Send Sorrow away.
Send Sorrow away, For she haunts me night and day. And Sorrow is dressed in grey, Yes, Sorrow is dressed in grey. And she looks so old, So drawn, so cold-- Send Sorrow away.
Alas!
So softly Time trod with me, that I lost His footsteps pacing mine. I stayed the while To wrest the luscious fruits from love and life; He strode on pauselessly, with thin cold smile.
So surely Time trod with me; marred my bloom, Stole all my roses, spread his cobwebs grey, Wrung all my tresses in his silvering hand; So stealthily he lured my youth away I only learned that I was old--to-day.
I could have borne it bravely, this I know, Had not the lips of children told me so.
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